


W.A.Y.S.

by orphan_account



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8255576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sexytimes cure the post-Semis blues.That is if both Portland and Chicago lost their Semis which totally didn't happen 'cause that would be crazy talk! Right???





	

“Tob?” Christen speaks softly, trying to lure Tobin from where she has seemed to retreat inside herself. 

Over the course of the evening, her girlfriend has gone from ‘breakdown’ to ‘brave face she put on in front of her teammates to compensate for the breakdown’ to this ‘surly sullen silence’ now that they’re alone and there's no one left to perform for. Her legs are still draped over Christen’s lap on the couch, the bag of ice Christen placed on her knee still there, but her arms are crossed beneath her chest and her eyes are focused intently on the wall in front of her instead of on the TV. She hasn't even looked at Christen let alone tried to interact with her in like an hour and Christen’s starting to fear the wall might actually lose this staring contest.

“Tobin?” she tries again, knowing that Tobin can hear her, knowing that she’s listening despite her lack of response. 

“Tobs, look at me,” she requests gently but she gets nothing but a slightly clenched jaw in response. “ _ Please _ ,” she pleads and Tobin finally caves, those beautiful brown eyes shifting from the wall to look at her. She still looks slightly teary-eyed, like the tiniest thing could set her off again and Christen feels like something in her chest pulls taut — like something inside her is threatening to crack under the pressure of Tobin’s sadness. She exhales deeply, wishing she had some sort of wand to magically uplift Tobin from this bad mood but that’s not possible; she doesn't have something like that; all she has is herself and her willpower and her immense love and respect for the woman next to her. She supposes it’ll have to do. 

“Hey,” she whispers, glad that Tobin is still looking at her at least, glad that Tobin is letting her see her even though it looks like she kinda just wants to crawl inside her own skin and hide. “Did you do your best today?” Christen asks. 

“Chris,” Tobin sighs, arms folding tighter like she wants nothing more than to just emotionally shut down. 

Christen isn't about to let her do that. 

“No, seriously,” she tells her, reaching out to unfold the midfielder’s arms. “Did you do your best out there?” she asks, in no way rhetorical, even though she already knows the answer with all of her heart. “Did you get on the pitch and give it your all?”

“You know I did,” Tobin whines, pouting. 

“Then why aren't you smiling?” Christen asks, simple and honest, because she watched that match with bated breath — watched, swelling with pride, as Tobin kept getting back up no matter how many times she got knocked down, watched as she played her freakin heart out every minute plus extra time. She’s so proud of her and she wants nothing more than for Tobin to be just as proud of herself. 

Tobin purses her lips and for a moment Christen thinks she’s going to argue, thinks she’s going to complain about how her best wasn't good enough; instead, her lips quirk into an almost reluctant smile that very soon morphs into a grin and all of a sudden, she’s laughing — cracking up so hard that she’s gasping to catch her breath. 

“Okay, I said smiling, not laughing at me,” Christen grumbles, a little miffed to be out of the loop of whatever is so funny. 

“Sorry,” Tobin apologies, trying to catch her breath through her subsiding chuckles. “It’s just, I can tell Grandma Press has been imparting her wisdom again,” she says, grinning widely. 

“Hey,” Christen mutters, thoughtlessly nudging Tobin’s leg in retaliation. 

“Owww,” Tobin winces; Christen immediately winces too. 

“Sorry. Sorry,” she quickly apologizes, fingers hovering, not sure where to touch and not wanting to hurt her injured girlfriend further. 

She settles for scratching her fingernails along Tobin’s calf which seems to calm the midfielder immediately because her body sinks further into the couch, further into Christen. 

“Are you implying I don't have my own wisdom to impart?” Christen asks, raising an eyebrow, daring Tobin to sass her. 

“You have the best wisdom,” Tobin tells her right away, eyes soft and voice sincere. “It’s just generally passed down from Grandma Press,” she adds, smirking. 

Christen rolls her eyes. 

“Fine, that’s true,” she admits, happy to let them descend into quietness now that Tobin’s body isn't so tense, now that the room isn't slowly boiling amid Tobin’s simmering agitation. 

They sit quietly for a few moments, Christen softly scratching along Tobin’s calf and Tobin settling for once — quiet and calm, her breath coming in deep, even pants. Christen thinks for a moment that they might just fall asleep like this, on the couch with the TV playing quietly in the background but Tobin suddenly shifts using her toe to poke Christen in her thigh to get her attention.

Christen looks at her and Tobin pouts, flinging her head back to look at the ceiling as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should, or doesn’t know how.

Christen waits. 

“Chris, I’m disappointed,” Tobin finally confides, not looking at her at all; she sounds so small — so hurt.

Christen frowns. 

“I know, baby,” she tells her, drawing invisible patterns against her ankle.  

“I really wanted to win,” Tobin mutters.  

“I know,” Christen sighs, because she gets it; because she wanted it too and she knows what it’s like to lose it.  _ Again _ . Knows how Tobin is feeling like not enough right now, knows how that feeling can swallow someone up from the inside out, knows there isn’t much she can do about it except be here, except not let Tobin gets lost in it. “I know,” she repeats. 

Tobin sighs.  

“I don't know what I would do without you here right now and I feel really guilty I couldn't be there for you on Friday,” she mumbles, the words coming quiet and fast, like she means for Christen to hear them but at the same time, she doesn't. 

Christen knows Tobin isn't quick to talk about what’s bothering her, knows she isn't easy to coax into confessions but she does loop around to these quiet confessions eventually and they always seem to make Christen feel so much like her chest isn't big enough to hold her heart. 

“Hey, your call meant the world to me, Tobs,” she tells her quickly because it’s true, because the night of her Semis, she fell asleep to the soothing cadence of Tobin’s voice instead of to the cacophony of her brain replaying missed chances and that was enough for her to wake up feeling ready to take on the world again (her waking up to a knock on her hotel room door and a delivery man shoving a bouquet of flowers in her face totally helped too). She can't even express how much Tobin even taking the time to watch her match meant to her, let alone her taking the time to talk her down from her self-pity, let alone her sending her flowers; she really can’t stand the thought of Tobin somehow feeling like an inadequate girlfriend just because she couldn’t drop everything to be by her side; Christen is in no way that petty. “I honestly can't begin to tell you how much it meant to me,” she reassures her unwavering because Tobin is looking at her carefully, like she’s gauging her for truthfulness and Christen couldn't be more honest. “Besides, I really didn't get battered like this on Friday,” Christen jokes, gesturing to the bag of ice on Tobin’s knee; it’s just sore, a bit swollen, nothing that ice, rest and elevation can’t fix in a couple of days but Christen still feels a little bad that Tobin got picked on so much during the match. 

“Just emotionally bruised,” Tobin points out. 

“Yeah something like that,” Christen agrees shrugging, shaking her head at herself more than anything because emotional bruising is definitely something she’s had her share of lately; it’s definitely something she’s still learning to pick herself up from.

She leans down, rests her forehead against the cool skin and lean muscle of Tobin’s legs.

“Aren't we quite the pair?” she laughs. 

“Of losers?” Tobin asks. “It would seem so,” she answers her own question, nodding solemnly. 

Christen rolls her eyes, pushes at her girlfriend's hip and Tobin grins, so open, so beautiful that Christen can’t stand it sometimes because it robs her of her breath, makes her feel like she’s falling into something she might never climb out of. 

She swallows hard against the sudden tidal wave of emotion that rises in her throat. 

“I don't feel like a loser right now,” slips out anyway, her voice a whisper against the hum of the TV and the mechanical sound of Tobin breathing. “Not with you,” she continues. “Never with you.”

Tobin is quiet and when Christen sits up from where she’s nuzzled her cheek against Tobin’s legs, it’s to find Tobin gazing at her, looking so incredibly tender and maybe a little bit surprised. 

“You’re something, you know that?” Tobin breathes out, sounding almost breathless, like she has force the air from her lungs to reinforce her words. 

“Well, I should hope I’m not nothing,” Christen jokes lightly. Tobin nudges at her with her heel in retaliation, presses into the curve at the back of her knee and just rests there casually. 

“What I mean is, you’re everything,” she says instead, so soft and gentle and genuine that Christen can barely stand it. 

“Tobin,” she interrupts, almost scared to hear Tobin’s thoughts translate to words, afraid they’ll overwhelm her with expectations. 

“No. Hear me out,” Tobin pleads, discarding the bag of ice and sitting up, shifting forward until she settles on Christen’s lap. She wraps her legs around Christen waist, facing her. 

“You are though,” she says, simple but intense, fingertips resting carefully against Christen’s cheeks like she’s touching something worth everything. She gently cups Christen’s jaw, tilts her head, silently begs her to meet her gaze; Christen does, finds Tobin’s brown eyes dark and focused on her so intently that it raises goosebumps on her skin. 

“You’re like everything any decent person should hope to be. You’re just so kind, Chris, and like  _ so fucking _ strong. Like, I don't — I can't even imagine,” she cuts herself off, shakes her head, bites on her bottom lip like maybe she just doesn't have the words to equal the awe shining in her eyes. 

Christen wants to tell her that it’s alright, that she gets it, that she honestly doesn't deserve such fanfare anyway, but Tobin trails her fingers from her jaw to the back of her neck, grips her just a little bit firmer like she’s warning her not to interrupt, like she won't know what to do with herself if she doesn't get her words out. 

“Like, you’re just amazing, okay?” she rushes out. “You told me after the Olympics that you didn't know if you could come back from what happened there and then you came back to the league like a goal scoring machine. When you found out you had to captain the Red Stars, you told me you didn't think you could lead them and yet, you did it, you did it so well and even though you were disappointed, you held it together for them. And now you’re here and you’re holding it together for me too and I don't even know how you do it; I don’t know how you stay so kind and so strong all the time,” Tobin tells her, fervent, and Christen wants to tell her that she isn't strong at all, isn't always kind, but Tobin speaks like this is something she would argue with her dying breath so Christen doesn't argue it. “You’re my MVP, you know that, right? Like, always. No matter what, you’re that person for me,” Tobin insists, soft and sincere. 

“You’re that person for me too,” Christen murmurs feeling suddenly overwhelmed but like in the best possible way where she’s just surrounded by so much Tobin— by everything she loves so much about Tobin. 

She presses her forehead against the midfielder’s for a moment, closes her eyes and just breathes — breathes in the slightly floral scent of a body wash Tobin probably borrowed from Allie, breathes in the warmth of Tobin’s breath that wisps across her lips, revels in the closeness between them and lets that feeling fill her up. 

Tobin kisses her — just a chaste peck against the side of her mouth and then another on the other side and again lingering full on her lips. 

Christen opens her eyes and Tobin smiles wide, pulls her impossibly closer by the nape of her neck. 

“Welcome back,” she murmurs, grinning and Christen doesn't have a reply to that so she replies by kissing Tobin hard, kissing her slow and patient in a way that isn't chaste at all.

Kissing Tobin is what Christen always imagined free falling feels like — terrifying in the way her heart races and she can't seem to catch her breath (doesn't even want to) but exhilarating in the way she suddenly feels everything all at once, feels the blunt edges of Tobin’s nails as they sink into her shoulder, feels the curve of Tobin’s lips and the heave of her chest. 

She slides her tongue between Tobin’s lips, licks across the inside of her bottom lip and Tobin gasps, grinding her hips for some friction. 

The movement must trigger something because she suddenly freezes, flinching in obvious discomfort and Christen suddenly remembers her knee which should definitely still be elevated and iced. 

“Hey, you’re hurt,” she warns gently, sweetly kissing the grimace from her girlfriend's lips. Tobin tries to deepen the kiss, tries to pull Christen closer but Christen won't let her, too afraid she’ll hurt herself again. 

“I’m not that hurt,” Tobin insists. 

Christen chuckles. 

“You’re hurt enough,” she contends, trying not to get too affected by the sloppy kisses Tobin has chosen to plant across her jaw since she’s being denied her lips. 

“I can be careful,” Tobin promises, tongue darting across skin. Christen eyes her warily because careful is a word she just doesn't associate with Tobin, especially when Tobin is like this — a little hot and bothered and a whole lot one track minded. 

Tobin nips at her jaw, just the way she knows makes Christen weak and Christen trembles. 

“Tobin,” she warns, shoving lightly at the midfielder’s shoulders. 

“Fine,” Tobin whines, peeling herself off of her and laying back against the couch; Christen thinks she’s actually being responsible for once, actually agreeing with her to postpone this til maybe tomorrow when she’s not so sore, but as soon as she settles back against the couch, she parts her thighs and tugs on Christen’s hand, ready and impatient. 

“ _ You _ can be careful then,” she urges and Christen rolls her eyes but goes willingly, slides in to settle between Tobin’s spread legs. 

They’ve always had this fundamentally different way of communicating. Even before they started dating, Christen remembers Tobin’s surprise whenever she used to call her just to talk, remembers how Tobin used to try to hang up during every awkward pause, how she eventually learned to fill those awkward pauses with actual words, how big of a moment it seemed when Tobin actually called her for the first time just to talk about her day. Christen, on the other hand, had to acclimate herself to Tobin’s physicality, had to learn that sometimes a tug on the arm is a better way to get Tobin’s attention than calling her name, had to learn to not sweat through Tobin’s stretches of silence and instead accept a head on her lap or feet thrown hazardously somewhere on her body or a messy tangle of limbs that Tobin sometimes likes to call a hug as a valid form of communication. 

She knows Tobin kinda drew the short end of the stick with her craving for the physical and all the distance usually between them, that’s why Christen resolved a long time ago to be physically present whenever she could, to always give her hand when Tobin asks for it (even if they have to let go seconds later), to not shy away from a palm on her lower back or fingers on her thigh, to not deny her this — this sort of full body connection. 

“Is this okay?” she asks, dropping onto one elbow but still making sure she’s not in contact with Tobin’s injured knee. 

Tobin grabs at her waist, pulls her in sudden and hard so she has no leverage, so her hips slot right into the juncture between Tobin’s thighs. 

“Perfect,” Tobin whimpers and Christen would chuckle at how far gone she sounds already but Tobin kisses her and well, Tobin licking hotly against her teeth is hardly a laughing matter. 

Plus, Christen feels pretty far gone herself. 

Tobin kisses her so thoroughly that sometimes Christen feels like days and nights could pass before her eyes and she wouldn't even notice; she’s far too focused on the slow and deliberate curl of Tobin’s tongue, on the hitched breaths and throaty moans that get trapped between their mouths. 

She manages to squeeze her hands between their bodies, slips her palms beneath the fabric of Tobin’s t-shirt to feel the way Tobin’s muscles seem to twitch beneath their barrier of warm skin, jumping at her touch. 

“You feel so good,” Christen murmurs, breathless against kiss-swollen lips, her fingertips dipping into the ridges made by the convexity of her ribcage and skating upwards still. 

Tobin impatiently tugs her shirt off herself, fingers quick and a little shaky as she rids herself of the burden, leaving her torso bare to Christen’s gaze and hands and lips. 

Christen takes full advantage of the opportunity, palms moving to cup Tobin’s chest, mouth moving to suck against the raised ridges of collarbone. 

She’s methodical and indulgent, takes her time to taste the salt from slightly sweaty skin, to kiss across Tobin’s breastbone, to bite the underside of a breast. She pulls a nipple between her lips, sucks hard until the flesh puckers against her tongue. 

Tobin squirms. 

“Chris,” she murmurs, voice gruff with want. “I need—  _ fuck _ , Chris,” she moans as Christen swipes her tongue across the neglected nipple. 

“What do you need?” Christen asks, biting at soft skin. 

“I need you,” Tobin hums, guileless, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world and perhaps it is, because Tobin is looking at her through her lashes, gaze half lidded, top less, slightly sweaty, gently flushed and softly bruised in the places Christen sucked a little too long or bit a little too hard. She honestly looks like she just needs Christen to touch her, anyhow,  _ right now. _

Christen is indecisive — kinda wants to make her wait until she gets that desperate little edge to her, kinda wants to rip her shorts off and get her mouth on her right this minute but she also doesn't want to hassle her to move her knee anymore than she has to so she settles for slipping her hand beneath the waistband of her shorts, fingers finding Tobin bare and warm and wet. 

Like really, really wet. Literally dripping. 

“Tobs,” Christen groans, sliding her fingers to where Tobin is slickest. 

Tobin’s reacts instantly, drawing in a ragged breath, eyes fluttering shut, fingernails digging into Christen’s shoulder. 

Christen slips a finger inside her and holds still, revels in the way Tobin envelopes her, grips her like even her body doesn't want to let her go.

“Chris, baby, please,” Tobin pleads softly, body straining to meet Christen’s so there almost isn't a single part of them not touching. 

Christen kisses Tobin’s cheek, slides warm and wet kisses over her chin, across her neck, to the shell of her ear. 

“What do you want, Tobin?” she asks, finger pushed knuckle deep. 

“More,” Tobin pants and Christen obliges instantly, slides her finger out and easily slides back in with two, her digits instantly coated in Tobin’s want. “Just — yeah,” Tobin sighs, eyes closed tight, hips bucking as Christen thrusts her fingers deep, pushes in hard. 

There isn't much space to work with between the elastic of the waistband of Tobin’s shorts and actual skin but it works in Christen’s favor because the tight angle pushes the heel of her hand against the swollen bud of Tobin’s clit and she can feel Tobin straining for that pressure, can feel how her body seeks it out every time she retreats. 

If there is one thing Christen will never tire of seeing (aside from a ball she kicked hitting the back of the net), it’s definitely this — definitely the way Tobin’s forehead creases in concentration when she’s close to climax, definitely the way her chest flushes a deep red and her abs contract and her lips part. 

She drops a kiss to the midfielder’s parted lips, uses the force of her hips to drive her fingers in deep, to grind her palm against Tobin’s swollen clit. 

Tobin comes suddenly and beautifully — Christen’s name half caught in her throat as her body stills, clenches tight around Christen’s fingers for a few moments before she falls back against the couch trembling.

Christen lets her ride it out, thrusts slowly as Tobin’s walls flutter against her fingertips. 

She waits until the shaking subsides to pull her fingers out, wipes them clean against Tobin’s hip bone and then dips almost immediately to run her tongue across the flesh, chuckles softly at the aftershock it causes from Tobin’s oversensitive body. 

“Come here,” Tobin murmurs, sounding hoarse but sated as she tugs on Christen’s bicep. 

Christen goes willingly, accepts the leisurely kisses that Tobin presses against her lips. 

“Satisfied?” she asks, doling out some leisurely kisses of her own — against the warmth of Tobin’s cheek, at the corner of her lips, sloppily on her chin. 

Tobin hums like she’s still deciding, her hands falling to Christen’s hips and gripping hard. She shifts her hips and Christen immediately knows what she’s trying to do before she does it. 

“No,” she warns, grounding herself, pressing her palms to Tobin’s shoulders before she can flip their positions. 

Tobin pouts.

“But I really, really,  _ really _ want to touch you,” she whines and Christen would be lying if she said Tobin’s words don't make her throb — well, throb harder because she’s been practically dripping since she got her hands down Tobin’s shorts; still, she’s weary about Tobin doing any physical activity that doesn't include hobbling to somewhere she can relax fully right now. 

“Don't worry about me,” she insists. “You’re supposed to be resting your knee.”

“You think I’m worried about you? No way. I’m being totally selfish right now because I don't know how I’ll even sleep tonight if I don't get to taste you,” Tobin tells her, smiling far too prettily to have said something so filthy. “Look,” she scoots down a bit on the couch, unceremoniously scooting Christen with her. “I don't even have to move my knee at all,” she promises. “Just get undressed and come up here,” she instructs, looking at her so earnestly that it’s hard to argue — even harder to argue when just the thought of Tobin’s mouth on her right now is enough to make her keen. “Please?” Tobin begs. 

“Okay,” Christen agrees, sliding off the couch to strip out of her shirt and bra. She steps out of her sleep shorts and underwear too, doesn't miss the way Tobin’s eyes rake hungrily over her exposed skin in a way that doesn't fail to make her ache with want. 

The couch isn't exactly the most spacious place for this but as she hovers over Tobin laying on the couch, Tobin impatiently grabs at her thighs, pulls her close and Christen quickly decides they’ll have to make do. 

She makes sure to comb her fingers through Tobin’s hair, gathering the flyaway strands and wrapping them around her palm into a makeshift updo as Tobin tugs at her until she situates herself with her knees on either side of Tobin’s ears. 

“Thoughtful,” Tobin murmurs about her makeshift hairdo, grinning as she strains forward, licks at Christen with a strong, sure stroke of her tongue.

Christen is already a goner. 

She’s so wet and swollen and  _ ready _ and Tobin isn't teasing at all. Her hands are strong and steady on Christen’s thighs, dragging her against the hot curl of her tongue. Christen is pretty sure she’s shaking already or at least it really feels like it. 

She reaches out to grip the armrest with the hand not holding Tobin’s hair, makes the mistake of looking down at Tobin who is gazing up at her intently, eyes dark and devouring. 

Tobin slips her tongue against her softly, shifts so she can wrap her lips around her clit and Christen does start shaking, feels the quiver start in her toes. 

She bucks her hips, clenches her fingers in Tobin’s hair and Tobin tugs at her thighs, encourages the rough buck of her hips. 

It doesn't take Christen long. 

She comes hard and fast, thighs trembling, warmth creeping up her spine. 

Tobin licks at her gently, carries her through the aftershocks of orgasm and when she starts licking more insistently, Christen is quick to climb off of her — knows that if she lets Tobin have her way then they’ll both be hobbling tomorrow. 

She sits on the armrest, catching her breath, trying not to be charmed by the way Tobin is grinning up at her, looking far too self-satisfied to be innocent. 

“Lift,” Christen requests, placing a quick upside down kiss on Tobin’s lips and tugging on the pillow that had shifted during their activities. Tobin lifts her head and Christen tugs it beneath her neck knowing with one hundred percent certainty that they’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight. 

Heart rate down to something bordering on acceptable, she moves to gather the pillows that have fallen to the floor, carefully lifts Tobin’s leg to prop up her injured knee. 

She finds the zip-lock bag of what used to be ice (is now water) and is about to turn to go fill it up in the kitchen when Tobin grabs her hand.

“Where are you going?” she asks, voice sounding guttural and tired.  

“To get more ice,” Christen answers, instinctively intertwining their fingers. 

“Leave it,” Tobin insists and Christen has got to admit, it’s tempting, because post orgasmic bliss has turned to post orgasmic sleepiness (for both of them, it seems) and the curve of Tobin’s shoulder is looking like the very best pillow right now; still, they’ve been doing a pretty crappy job of icing and resting the knee so far and Christen knows they should really get on that. 

“Hey, the faster that swelling goes down, the faster I can return that favor,” she tells Tobin leaving her girlfriend momentarily dazed, enough for her to retrieve her hand with no struggle. 

“Chris!” She hears Tobin call after her. “Chris, seriously, you could be a doctor ‘cause I’m totally healed!” Tobin continues; Christen chuckles as she throws the melted ice water in the kitchen sink. “Like, what knee injury? What knees, Chris? I don't even have knees!”

Christen is laughing, genuinely happy, as she fills the bag with ice. She realizes that this right here is definitely not the way she had anticipated the post-season going for either of them but as she returns to her girlfriend, places the ice on Tobin’s knee and settles immediately into Tobin’s waiting arm, she realizes she’s definitely smiling regardless. 

And Tobin is too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading if you got this far! XD
> 
> The title is from the Jhene Aiko song, "W.A.Y.S." (Why Aren't You Smiling) which is a good song so totally check it out!
> 
> Someone asked me on [Young Gods](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8003446/chapters/18323260) if I had a Tumblr which I didn't so I made one and you can officially catch me here at [crazycarsoncity.tumblr.com](http://crazycarsoncity.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


End file.
